Bent, slightly burnt
Pages crumble under
My careful fingers
I'm writing down
Memories no one will
Understand someday
Hiding them from
Everyone like they are
Somehow so important

Scribbling down my
Poetry like Mozart and
His symphonies but
Mine are shallow words
No one wants to hear
Much less read a notebook
Full of how my life
Doesn't make sense any
More like it ever did

There are stains where
I spilled my tea and
Scratches where words
Used to be but they
Don't really matter in the
End of it all because
Who wants to read my
History it's just a waste
Of energy and efficiency
Trying to be fluent in
This language no one can
Perfect there is no
Understanding to be
Stated and it's all so overrated

I'm just a mess with a
Few pages sticking out here
And there my ink stained
Fingers and penbehindmyear
Tactics I think I'm just so smart, don't I?

Wait…what am I writing again?